


Cigarettes and Other Lonely Artifacts

by escspace



Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Drama, Family, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Modern Ragar AU, Road Trips, Romance, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace
Summary: The household flies to America to have a summer vacation road trip, and feelings boil to the surface under the warm California sun.
Relationships: Cadis Etrama di Raizel/Frankenstein (Noblesse), Frankenstein (Noblesse)/Ragar Kertia, Frankenstein/Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama Di Raizel, M-21 & Takeo & Tao (Noblesse), Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama di Raizel
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40
Collections: Modern Mundanity





	1. Departure

Decades ago, when it was just the two of them wandering the wide world that was always changing, always young, Ragar watched the American man on the dim, flickering television steady his muscled, powerful horse, pull down his ten-gallon hat, and take a long, steady drag from his cigarette. He raised his head majestically and blew white smoke into the air. He was the Marlboro Man, ever rugged, masculine, and cool. The next time Ragar went shopping, he picked up a packet of cigarettes, turned it around in his hands, and paid for it at the friendly cashier with the money Frankenstein gave him every week. He wondered if he could be as cool as the mythical Marlboro Man.

He returned to their small Los Angeles apartment that quiet, starless night and silently stepped out onto the balcony. Ragar pulled out the packet and a cheap plastic lighter from one of the pockets of his shiny, black leather jacket that had replaced his long Lukedonian coat several years prior. Carefully, he selected one cigarette and flicked the lighter twice to create a small flame that he curiously held to the end. As the cocktail of paper, nicotine, and other dubious chemicals burned, Ragar watched the gentle yellow-orange glow of ash fleck into the wind before holding the cigarette to his mouth, discreetly pulling his mask down. He breathed in. It felt like swallowing sandpaper, grit and poison in his lungs. He doubled over coughing as the smoke's heavy, intrusive scent seemed to sink into his pores and long hair.

The sound of the balcony door sliding open made Ragar abruptly turn around. There was Frankenstein, leaning against the frame, an amused, condescending smile on his face. "What are you doing?" he asked, as if he had not just watched Ragar succumb to such a mundane human invention as a cigarette. Frankenstein's expression softened as he too stepped out onto the balcony. "Since when did you start smoking?"

Ragar lowered the cigarette, briefly scrutinizing the infernal thing with suspicion. "I saw an ad, on the television," he said truthfully, pulling his mask back up. He wasn't quite sure what to do with the cigarette still burning in between his fingers. "I believe I have been deceived."

Frankenstein huffed, smirking. "Those things cause cancer, you know. Not that _you_ would get cancer." His eyes flickered down to the crumbling ash. "Are you going to finish that?"

Ragar stared down at it, then shook his head. Frankenstein motioned for him to hand it over, and so he did.

When Frankenstein held it up to his lips and took a long drag, making the tip of the cigarette glow brighter against the dark night before exhaling so that smoke coiled mysteriously around his face, Ragar thought that he looked cooler than any Marlboro Man. He smoked like a black and white film, every frame embellished with a practiced and yet effortless art. He looked like the glamor of Hollywood distilled. Frankenstein watched the smoke, but Ragar was watching Frankenstein.

They stood together silently in the night, each watching their personal poisons.

Fifty years later, after that very night, Raizel would walk through the doors of the principal's office of Ye Ran High School for the very first time.

* * *

Ragar looks between the two heavy bottles of rum in his hands, unsure which to purchase for tonight. His phone buzzing in his pocket causes him to set both bottles back to check the message from Frankenstein:

'Sorry, I won't be able to go watch that movie with you tonight. Master wants to see the city."

Ragar pauses for a moment. 'I already have the tickets.'

'See if anyone else wants to go with you.'

'I understand.' Ragar gives the bottles of rum one last look. He walks out of the store empty handed, slipping his phone back into his jacket. It is not a big deal.

* * *

Regis and Seira have returned to Lukedonia for the summer break, and Tao, Takeo, and M-21 have already made plans with each other. Ragar finds himself walking into the theater alone with two tickets in his hand.

The action superhero film is poorly written and poorly directed, the fighting hardly comprehensible and cut so rapidly so as to convey little information. Ragar knows Frankenstein would have walked out of the theater with no shortage of criticisms; he also knows that he himself would have attentively listened to them, quietly nodding along in agreement. But Frankenstein is not there to walk out of the theater with him, shuffling along with the river of people leisurely basking in the humdrum of a Saturday night out with their companions.

When Ragar steps outside, it is drizzling. As he walks down the streets, going nowhere in particular, it begins to pour. Slowly, he walks, his steps making small splashes, water flying off of his shoes whenever he lifts his feet. The gentle pitter patter of cool rain soothes him, though there is nothing to be soothed from. He sees warm light shining through a window. As he steps into the bar, he discreetly dries his drenched self with his noble powers and decides to take a seat. Silently, he watches the other patrons living their own bustling lives. Pleasant chatter surrounds him. Someone laughs raucously, another person yells profanities, and yet another person gossips conspiratorially. Life at any corner is diverse, and Ragar is watching those other people from the outside. He is removed from them, silent and drinking up experiences that are not his own. Among the activity, no one seems to notice him. He is an expert at such things—not being noticed. He is a ghost, barely there, barely visible.

Quietly, Ragar slips into the past. He remembers being seated next to Frankenstein who had managed to gather glasses upon glasses around himself and was still drinking more, chasing an intoxication he couldn't really obtain from just regular alcohol. Ragar counted the glasses, and he watched Frankenstein and listened to him as he lamented about far off things, about things that, at the moment, didn't really matter. Ragar was the one to drive them home that Los Angeles night.

He is brought back to the present by the voice of the bartender, a tall, broad shouldered man with a friendly smile that reminds him of a field of sunflowers glinting with the dew of the morning. "Can I get you anything?" he asks. His eyes are amber, but his golden hair, tied back in a low ponytail, is long and teased with soft waves.

Ragar tugs at his mask. "Orange juice," he says succinctly.

The man smiles at him again. "Right away." He does not look Korean at all, and he speaks with an unpracticed accent.

When he slides the cold glass of juice across the counter, Ragar ventures to ask, "Where are you from?"

"Oh!" He chuckles, a little embarrassed, as if he has expected to blend right in with the locals and is suddenly being called out for being an outsider. "America," he says. "Southern California, to be specific, near Orange County."

Ragar's eyes widen slightly with recognition, and he nods deeply. "I have been there." Then, in English, he says, "It was my residence for a few years, before I moved here with a friend."

At hearing this, the bartender grins widely, visibly relaxing at being able to speak in his native tongue. "Oh my god, small world! Oh, just a moment—" He swiftly leaves to prepare drinks and hand them out to a few patrons before returning to Ragar. "So why the move, if you don't mind me asking?"

Ragar suddenly finds himself caught without having prepared an adequate excuse that perhaps a normal human might have for uprooting themselves from their home and sailing away across the world. He had always done it without question, decade after decade, century after century. He had left Lukedonia, left his status and his clan and his history all behind to follow Frankenstein across the sea that one night an eon or so ago. One corner of the world to another, he followed and will always follow. Ragar decides then that he needs no excuse, and so tells the truth: "For my friend." It is simple. Ragar looks at him in the eyes, straightforward, honest, as if he is making a promise all over again. "I had sworn to stay by his side. Where he goes, I follow, no matter where." He looks down at his glass of juice. The ice has begun to melt. "It has been that way for a long time…and it will continue to be that way."

The man smiles gently at Ragar with something resembling understanding, but Ragar knows he cannot understand, not truly, the sheer scale of the centuries and centuries between him and Frankenstein. "Your friend must be very dear to you."

Ragar nods. "There is no other like him."

Ragar does not know this, but the man has traveled well enough and tended to enough bars around the world to know lovesickness when he sees it written across someone's face. "How about something with a little more kick?" he offers, glancing down at the untouched orange juice. He leans forward and whispers playfully, "Don't tell the others here, but it's on me."

Ragar glances up at him. "What is your recommendation?"

He winks. "It'll be a surprise." Gracefully, he smiles and laughs as he drifts away again to prepare drinks. He returns shortly with an amber filled glass. A toothpick speared through a dark cherry sits balanced across the rim. "A _Vieux Carré_ ," the bartender announces a little proudly as he triumphantly sets the glass down. "Rye whiskey, Cognac, sweet vermouth, Bénédictine liqueur, bitters, cherry garnish, on the rocks."

Ragar gently takes the glass. "You know of your drinks well," he compliments softly.

"Of course. Been doing this for the past fifteen years." He is called over by another patron saturating himself with alcohol. Apologetically, the bartender smiles at Ragar. "I'd love to talk with you some more, but tonight's busy. Tell you what, my shift ends in an hour, if you care for my company."

Ragar gazes at him for a long moment, then he nods. He pulls down his mask slightly and takes a sip of the drink. Its spirited, spicy-sweet, herbal taste glides down his throat with the pleasant warm burn of alcohol.

Outside, the rain continues to tap softly as guests tumble from the chilled breeze and into the warm light. Once again, Ragar finds himself watching life from the outside.

* * *

The man takes off his black apron and folds it somewhere under the counter. He walks around to the other side where the guests are seated and takes a seat himself next to Ragar. A woman takes his place serving customers, and the man waves her over.

Her dark bob of hair bounces subtly as she leans her elbow casually on the counter. "So, what'll it be, Mister Customer?" She smirks at him like she knows him well.

In his slow Korean, he says, "Two beers please, make them big and ice cold."

"Right away."

"Thank you, Song." He cheerfully nods at her as she sets the large glasses down by the handles. He takes one and raises it at Ragar. "Cheers!"

Ragar, a little caught off guard, quickly mimics him. "Cheers," he says, much quieter.

The stranger swings his glass and takes a generous gulp. He sighs with great satisfaction as he lowers it again. He then looks at Ragar with an expression of amusement that is too familiar as Ragar sips his own beer delicately.

"My name's James," he says, switching to English again.

"I am called Ragar." In comparison to James, Ragar's own English sounds foreign and somewhat clumsy. He has gone for years without practice, and his accent is tinged with Korean.

James takes another appreciative swig of his beer. "You know, of all the drinks, nothing beats the simplicity and the indulgence of a hearty, cold beer." He grins like a sleepy crescent moon, eyes hooded. "So, this friend of yours, have you known him for very long?"

Ragar smiles a little himself. "Centuries. We have known each other for centuries." He knows a human's common sense will construe his answer as fond hyperbole, but Ragar knows that he means what he says. He wonders why he is being so unreasonably honest with a stranger. It is not the alcohol that has compelled him to be this way, so perhaps it is the rain or the comfortable background chatter. Maybe it is the man sitting before him, watching him with shining eyes set in a face that can be squinted into looking like someone he knows well, giving him all of his attention. Maybe it is loneliness.

"You've known each other for 'centuries,' but you're here drinking alone?" James smiles wryly. "Well, not completely alone; you've got me now," he adds quickly.

"He is busy with someone more important than myself." Ragar means this genuinely.

"Ah…" A wisened expression passes over James' features, like he has seen people like Ragar before, like Ragar is another heartbroken heartthrob who has walked into a bar to forget that he cannot have whom he desires because the other person has fallen in love with someone else, perhaps more beautiful, more resourced, perhaps just _more_. This is not true, but he looks at Ragar as if it is true, as if he understands him truly.

For a moment, Ragar wants to be understood like that, even if by a stranger. He wants to reduce his affections to simple, stereotyped, consumable things that all the movies and novels can tell him how to solve.

Ragar raises his beer. "Cheers."

They clink glasses.

* * *

The door clicks locked behind them. The room is dark with only the silver sliver of moonlight spilling through the window illuminating part of a face, part of a hand, part of a person, flickers of film noir.

James grasps at Ragar's jacket and shoves him back against the wall. He presses forward and puts his lips next to Ragar's, separated by only the thin fabric of a black mask. They kiss through it wetly, fervently, hands in hair, under shirt, over skin, everywhere.

Ragar sighs when they part and swallows down the strange, tense nervousness in his throat. He knows of human life well enough to know what sex is, what it is used for, what it means between people. But he admits, "I have...never done this before."

James' eyes glint in moonlight, widening a little in surprise. Then, he smiles warmly. "I'll show you," he whispers then works at Ragar's neck with his lips. His broad hand slides down his tight abdomen until it reaches Ragar's pants, and he presses his palm against his groin, kneading and massaging it in pulsing circles.

Ragar reaches up to place his hands on his shoulders, feeling a pleasant ache grow in between his legs. James has slotted his thigh between them to keep them apart. Ragar knows what this is; he is not clueless. It is called a one-night stand. They would make each other cum and then part ways. It is simple, rudimentary human interaction.

Ragar finds himself reaching into his pocket just to keep his unsure hands occupied as James heats his skin with touch and tongue. The little box of cigarettes has been soaked through with rain, the cardboard becoming mushy against the leather of his jacket.

He is in a stranger's bedroom, doing strange things, feeling even stranger. Ragar is overwhelmed as James pushes him down onto the bed and leans over him, hands pushing his jacket down his shoulders and then unzipping his pants. Ragar is disheveled. He feels like he is caught, like he is undignified and wreckless and careless and slow and stupid. His body, an imitation of a human's, aches for more touch. It wants to feel and sing against the other one hovering so close to him, but Ragar knows. He knows this is not the answer he is looking for.

Before James can slip his hand under Ragar's pants and give him pleasures he has yet to know, Ragar pushes him back by the shoulders, sitting up. "We should not do this," Ragar states. He pulls his jacket back over himself.

James looks at him for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I do something?"

Ragar gently shakes his head. "It is not your fault. I should not deceive myself."

He backs away, giving Ragar room to put himself back together again.

"James…" Ragar begins. "I am very grateful for your company, but I…"

"You should go be with your friend," James finishes for him. He smiles at Ragar, silhouetted by moonlight. "Don't worry, you haven't hurt my feelings. I understand."

For a moment, Ragar feels that he truly does understand. He nods. "Thank you," he says.

In the dim light, James' smile is uncannily familiar.

They part ways.

As Ragar descends in the elevator of the apartment complex, he checks his phone. Seven missed calls. Four unread messages. He quickly selects Frankenstein's number from his contacts.

"Where have you been? Why didn't you pick up?" Frankenstein demands over the phone.

"I have been...exploring."

"We've been trying to reach you for the past hour and a half." A sigh. "You're fast. Go home, pack your bags. We'll meet you at the Incheon International Airport."

"...The airport?"

"Our flight leaves in an hour, and we've yet to get through security."

"Where are we going?" Wind rushes past Ragar's ears.

"Los Angeles. Summer vacation. Roadtrip."

"I am at the airport."

"You're at the—" The call abruptly ends.

Frankenstein is standing at the entrance, suitcases and bags surrounding him. Raizel is watching the automatic doors, and Tao, Takeo, and M-21 are lugging more bags from the trunk of a taxi.

Frankenstein smirks. "Well, that was fast." He does a headcount and a luggage count. "Alright, let's go."


	2. Gentle(wo)man

Tao slams the door of the new, shiny RV open, taking in a big breath of the distinct smell of sunbaked car and laughing with glee.

"Please be careful. This is a rental," Frankenstein gently chides.

He swiftly turns on his heel and places his fists on his hips. "Alright!" Tao declares. "First stop: In-N-Out Burger! They're rare; can't find them back home."

"The first stop will be a store to pick up some necessities before we embark anywhere else." Frankenstein crosses his arms, and his word is law.

They shuffle inside with their bags.

The floor is a light, polished wood, and upon walking inside, one is immediately greeted with the electric stove top, above which is a microwave and a couple of scratched up oak cupboards. The shiny silver sink is modest and circular, hesitant to take up too much room in the narrow square footage of living space. To the left, separate doors for the single shower and single toilet, and beyond that is the bare minimum of a bedroom with a bed big enough for three if they do not mind getting cozy. To the right is a blue-gray table, big enough to seat four, and a small couch against the wall. Above the driver's seat and passenger's seat is another sleeping area, even more barebones than the 'bedroom:' platform with a thin mat having to provide all the comforts of home.

Frankenstein takes the driver's seat and the wheel as the others busy themselves with exploring their novel living space and stowing away their bags.

"I don't get why you had to bring your fucking huge gun case, Takeo." M-21 is looking around, trying to find anywhere reasonable to jam the behemoth luggage into. "This is as big as another person."

Takeo, in return, just looks at him apologetically. "Well, I have to take care of my hair…"

"What?! Is this all hair care products?"

"Nope!" Tao swings his arm to hook around Takeo's neck, leaning into him. "I packed some instant ramen too."

At this, Raizel turns to look at the towering, black case with great interest.

Silently and unprompted, Frankenstein stands up from the driver's seat. "Ragar, you know these streets, take the wheel. I'll make Master some ramen."

* * *

The bold, concentric red circles of the Target logo looms over the packed parking lot whose dark asphalt is a patchwork of oil stains and cracks under the dry, afternoon sun. As they walk into the bright, air conditioned space of casual consumerism and glinting white and speckled linoleum floors, Frankenstein pulls up a list on his phone as he grabs a red accented shopping cart with one hand. "We'll need: paper towels, toilet paper, dish soap, bar soap, melamine sponges, seventy percent isopropyl alcohol, detergent, glass cleaner, wood cleaner, disinfectant wipes, a broom, a mop…"

By the time Frankenstein is done reading off his list consisting mostly of cleaning supplies, he looks up to find that Ragar has already dutifully filled the cart with the requisite items.

"Oh...thank you."

Ragar nods. Everyone else in their party has disappeared.

Frankenstein sighs.

Frankenstein has already checked in with his master telepathically—an age old form of communication even more instantaneous than the novel human invention of phones—by the time they walk over to the rows and rows of checkout lines. By the time the young woman ringing up customers nods her pleasant hello at them, he has received hasty confirmation of the others' activities: Takeo wants lotion, Tao—a board game, M-21—Hot Pockets.

After paying for the items, which amounts to a total of two hundred and seven dollars, Frankenstein resigns himself to waiting patiently at the complementary Starbucks inside the store with a newly brewed cup of black coffee. He takes a sip and makes an expression akin to disgust, as if such a thing dares offend his tongue. "This tastes like water and sugar." He speaks in wholly American English, and Ragar is reminded once again of the glamor of the Marlboro Man.

"Indeed, tragic," Ragar says as he pushes the full cart nearer to the table.

Frankenstein scrutinizes him for the response and sets the steaming paper cup down. "Are you not going to find something for yourself?"

"What could I need which I do not already have?"

A subtle and curious disbelief crosses Frankenstein's face, an expression that Ragar is long familiar with by now; it is an expression of friendship, and Frankenstein does not make such a simultaneously exasperated yet amused face at anyone else. For this, Ragar feels a bit of pride.

Frankenstein takes another tentative sip of his coffee. "Go look around before we leave, just in case. We have twenty minutes."

* * *

In his leisurely wanderings, Ragar finds himself in the shoe section. A pair of high heel boots, sleek and black, catches his eye. He knows he is supposed to be a man, and human men in modern human society generally do not wear such heels (though he very well remembers a time when they did; it is such a human experience to change constantly with time), and Ragar has learned that there is a convenience in conforming to whatever the current human norms are according to their time and place, but he decides to try those heels on anyway. 'He' and 'him', 'she' and 'her,' those sorts of things are, to nobles, merely a matter of aesthetics and convenience.

Ragar has been approached by others seeking the companionship of a beautiful, tall, lonesome woman more times than he cares to remember. People seem to see in him whatever it is they wish to see.

He sits down on one of the benches with the faux suede shoes gently cradled in his hands and then slips them on in place of his dark boots. Silently and a little self indulgently, he stands, feeling a little taller, and looks at himself in the mirror, twisting slightly to catch the sight of the back of his heels. There is a soft, almost embarrassed pride to this practice of approving his appearance in the mirror. He likes the lines of the heels and likes how they extend his already tall, willowy form. Before he can take them off and put them back, however, the voice of an aged, cheery woman draws his attention.

"You look perfect, Babygirl." There are smiling wrinkles set deep in her face and warm, dark skin, but her eyes, clear and brown, remain youthful. Her pale yellow dress is faded from years of sunshine.

Ragar is neither 'baby' nor quite 'girl,' but something small and warms bubbles and pops in his chest. He nods deeply in gratitude for her comment. "Thank you," he says, English still slightly strange on his tongue. He does not have the fluidity and quickness of the Noblesse's language acquisition abilities, but the woman understands him well enough and smiles before walking away to continue her shopping.

Ragar slips the shoes off of himself, places them back in the cardboard box, and decides he will buy them for thirty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.

As he carries the box under his arm and makes his way back to the checkout area, he spots the sparkling white-clad form of Sir Raizel in the baby items aisle and approaches him instead.

Raizel is peering curiously at a soft, pastel pink stuffed unicorn. He tentatively reaches out to pat its horned head.

"Do you wish to purchase that, Sir Raizel?" Ragar asks.

Slowly, Raizel reaches out with both hands to pluck the toy from the shelf. "This is for human children." His English is clear and smooth, as if he has been speaking it his entire life.

Ragar nods informatively.

"Did you not want to have children of your own, Ragar?" Raizel looks at him with aged, perceptive eyes. He remembers old tales and old promises from before his slumber, a world so vastly removed from the modernity of superstores, rental cars, commercial airplanes, and all the streets they walk and all the lights they see, that it becomes like fantasy to them, even if Lukedonia was once their home.

"That was very long ago," Ragar answers. "When I had left Lukedonia with Frankenstein after your disappearance, creating heirs was superfluous." He glances downwards thoughtfully and with a touch of melancholy. "Even if I were to have them, they would have no clan to belong to. The Kertia Clan dissolved when I left."

"A family does not need to be a clan." Raizel holds the stuffed animal closer to himself, running his delicate fingers through its downy fur. Ragar knows Raizel knows he has not truly answered his question—the question of 'want'—but Raizel does not press him further on the subject. "I wish to purchase this," he says instead.

Ragar nods respectfully. "I will buy it for you, Sir."

"I have money."

"I _want_ to buy it for you, Sir."

* * *

Frankenstein inspects the tall, black bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream Liqueur. "You can't get drunk off of this," he says flatly.

"Not everything's about getting blackout drunk or high, Frankenstein." M-21 defensively grabs the bottle from him and places it back in the red and white plastic bag in the cart. "It goes well with coffee."

After everyone gathers once again, they march back to the modest RV, the misaligned wheels of the cart rumbling against the grit of the ground.

Tao slams his large, flat boxes onto the table. On one is a warm scenic painting of three travelers on a dirt road winding through a golden wheat field — "Settlers of Catan. On the other is an ominous flared shadow of a horned person against a green wall — Disney's "Villainous".

Takeo looks over Tao's shoulder at the colorful board games. "So how do you play?"

"No idea," Tao says. "But, we can figure that out over burgers. Hey Boss—"

"I got it," Frankenstein calls back as the engine purrs to life.

This is shortly followed by polite yet enthused chants of "In-N-Out! In-N-Out! In-N-Out!"

As they turn into the packed parking lot of the quaint fast-food establishment of legends, they are met with lines that seem to go on forever, coming from inside the restaurant as well as winding around the drive-through, creating serpents of people and automobiles.

"Not all of us need to go in there," Frankenstein decrees with scientific sharpness. "Send me your orders. I'll bring the food out. There's likely not enough room in there anyway for us to be comfortable." He gets up from the driver's seat and looks at Ragar. "You'll come with me in case I need extra hands."

Ragar nods.

"I would also like to come." Raizel carefully sets the pamphlet of board game instructions, held between only two elegant fingers, down on the table and looks up seriously at Frankenstein.

"Master...It is rather warm outside, and I don't know how long we'll be standing in line. It is much more comfortable to be in the air conditioning here."

"You must think rather lowly of me, Frankenstein, if you think I will be defeated by atmospheric heat."

"Ah—yes, Master—I mean, of course not! I do not think lowly of you." Frankenstein nervously bows his head with the quickness of rectifying a grave misdemeanor. "Please, do whatever it is you wish, Master."

Raizel nods, and then he too stands.

M-21, Tao, and Takeo exchange bemused, eyebrow raising glances, as if to say, 'What the hell was that?' Or perhaps more precisely, 'What is wrong with these people?'

When they step out, the heat is uncaring and the air is dry. Frankenstein squints against the sun, which, at this time of year has a habit of staying up rather late. The length of the chattering and colorful line bursting through the doors at this late lunch hour is tedious but not insurmountable as they take their place behind the other eager customers.

When at last they enter the humble air conditioned building, polished tiles crisscrossing the floor and a yellow neon sign reading 'Quality you can taste' in whimsical script beaming near the order and pickup counters. The menu is small and classic: three options for burgers — double meat with double cheese, a cheeseburger, a hamburger — a side of fries, a quaint selection of drinks ranging from sugar to caffeine and not much else. The walls framing the bustling workers constantly moving and communicating, almost with machine fervor, are checkered red and white. For an instant, it as a tableau of ordinary, colorful, bustling American life embellished by the clacking of heels, the notes of chatter, the sizzle of sparkling oil, and the thud of a machine being slammed to cut fries again and again.

"Master, have you decided what you will have yet?" Frankenstein asks quietly, but not quiet enough to prevent a close neighbor in line from overhearing.

The young woman smiles at her friend, her eyes glinting with mundane mischief, and leans forward to whisper, "Ooh, kinky."

"Oh my god! Shut up," her friend exclaims, just as amused. "They'll hear you." But she laughs anyway as they turn to other points of friendly conversation.

Frankenstein, noticed once and then quickly forgotten like any other ordinary human, is undeterred, and his attention remains captured by Raizel, who stares wonderstruck at the activity.

"I would like…" Raizel says slowly and methodically. "...a burger."

"Yes, but which one, Master?"

"I place my trust in you, Frankenstein."

"Of course, Master." It is too crowded for a full, deep, gracious bow, but Frankenstein nods in respect. It is a motion they all have seen time and time again, as anachronistic as it may be in this day and age.

Frankenstein is a modern man, and a man of science, and yet, he holds close to his heart and soul ancient rituals older than any other living human, and older than many nobles alive today. The world moves and changes, and he does so along with it, but in how he defers, how he bends and bows, he is more unchanging than stone, as even that can wear and change after so long. For a while, it is completely and utterly fine; there is simply no need to change such things.

"Hello! What can I get you?" the young, freckled man asks them. He smiles despite the dark circles under his eyes like only the best customer service.

Frankenstein glances down at his phone. Then he looks up again and recites, "Eight 'Double-Doubles' — no onions, three 'Animal Fries,' and one regular fries, to go, please."

The man taps away at his screen and repeats the order back to them. "Is that all for you today?"

Ragar takes this as an opportunity to lean forward. With his heels, he is even taller than usual and looms over the young worker. He looks at the him seriously and tugs at his mask.

The man's smile falters. For a second, an emotion resembling fear passes under his eyes.

"I would like one large Coke," Ragar tries to say, but the slip in his accent turns his words into, "one large Cock."

" _Coke_ —a large Coke," Frankenstein quickly corrects.

The cashier smiles brightly again now that he is sure Ragar is not a masked man looking to rob the establishment at gunpoint in broad daylight. "Of course, Sirs," he says.


	3. Fun For the Night

As the sun approaches the line of the horizon separating sparkling sea from spacious sky, Frankenstein hands the keys of their motor vehicle to the valet dressed primly in a tight vest and straightened hat. They nod at each other, and while the man hops into the RV to park it somewhere mysterious, the rest of them walk past the automatic sliding glass doors of the Hyatt Regency Hotel, a sprawling crystalline glass structure nestled in the tourist-buzzing city of Anaheim, California. Two suites for two nights; the elevator rockets them up to the top floor.

"Oh shit—I didn't know this was going to be this big. Hotels offer rooms this big?" M-21 plops his stuffed bag of clothes down in the entranceway, slips off his shoes, and wanders towards the sweeping windows overlooking the warm evening and its many lights.

"Haven't you stayed at hotels before?" Tao chirps as he hunts down the complementary wifi information usually revealed in glossy pamphlets on top of dressers or tables.

"Low level agents like me? We'd be lucky to get a bed."

"Oh…"

Takeo takes to inspecting the closets and drawers and peeks into the bright, shiny bathroom that is plucked straight from every vision of the American Dream of a warm, polished house and white picket fence. "I feel a little bad, This is...really nice, and it's coming out of the boss's own pocket. Four hundred dollars a night, that's more than any of us can afford." To the rag-tag trio of ex-Union products, this is the velveteen lap of luxury, from the glass-polished tiles of the main living area to the two plush queen bedrooms flanking either side of it, as well as the jacuzzi.

"Hey, don't feel too bad. Boss is filthy stinkin' rich."

"Where does all of his money come from anyway?"

"Some questions are better left unanswered, Takeo."

M-21 turns from the window. "He's older than whole countries; could have struck it rich anywhere, anytime." Conversation fleetingly drops and picks up again—"We should definitely go check ou the pools later—"

"Actually…" Takeo stuffs his gun case in a closet. "There's a place I've been wanting to check out."

* * *

"You dragged us all up this mountain to look at some stars? Can't we do that anywhere?" M-21 scoffs as he gazes up at the dark sky.

"The observatory has other exhibits too." Takeo yanks open the glass door to the gray, domed building. "But I want to look at the telescopes."

The first thing they see upon entering is a grand, slow pendulum, several meters long above a circular evenly divided plane set into the floor—a Foucault pendulum, swaying as the earth rotates.

"Didn't know you were into this stuff," Tao comments.

Takeo leans over the railing guarding the golden teardrop of the pendulum, his long hair sweeping forward over his shoulders. The pendulum sleepily and gently sways. "I've just been doing a bit of reading in my spare time." He turns around. "Remember when the boss got all…"

"Possessed? McFucking insane? About to slaughter us all? Yeah, I remember." M-21's expression is one of almost-amusement.

"You mean after he got Crombel, right?" Tao asks.

Takeo nods. "At the time, I thought he looked like..." He points vaguely upwards, motioning at the entire night sky. Again, he turns and leans on the railing. "His powers reminded me of those black holes in space."

Tao, bouncing on his heels, swings an arm around Takeo's neck and leans playfully into him. "Wow, look at you, being so smart."

He huffs kindly. "Mister Ragar told me Boss didn't used to be that powerful." Takeo leans into the group with an expression bright with a fascinated, conspiratorial discovery. "He told me he used to regularly beat Frankenstien, back when they were living in Lukedonia." Though Takeo holds no suspicion towards Ragar's words, his voice is still tinged with slight disbelief.

A gush of night air blows against their backs as other visitors enter, giving a quick glance to the pendulum before heading into the South Gallery at the top of a short flight of stone steps. They too are enjoying the clear summer night.

"Maybe he was joking with you," M-21 suggests.

"Has Mister Ragar ever told a joke?"

"I...don't know."

* * *

"Master, would you like to go somewhere tonight?" Frankenstein stands, empty teacup in hand. "Would you like to go somewhere fun?" he suggests, a drop of youthful mischief in his tone and his eyes glinting with the optimism of star-shine as he walks to place the cup in a tray on top of the television stand.

Regally, Raizel stands and nods.

Ragar takes his jacket from the back of the stuffed, floral patterned chair and shrugs it on.

* * *

With a flick of his wrist, much like a magician, Frankenstein produces one of his numerous IDs along with a generous 'tip,' and they are deferentially ushered into the diamond facade of Hollywood nightlife. The high-tech, high-art club is a generous 18,000 square feet stolen from the romantic fever dreams of neon futurism and Renaissance revival. Perpetually posing, glamorous and beautiful, are sculptures reminiscent of old Greek celebrations of human figure, skin of stone shifting and iridescent under the saturated globes of light suspended above like planets. People sway and swarm with the euphoric, booming music that thumps into the air and into their chests, making their hearts beat to a foreign tempo.

Frankenstein raises his hand above the kaleidoscope of people and party to catch the illuminated red gazes of his companions. With unfamiliar audacity, he takes a hold of Raizel's wrist and leads them through the surreal labyrinth. The space shifts from loud neons in blues and pinks to subdued golden glows as they enter a lounge and bar space, calling back to the century old luxury of Art Deco. Classy bronze lighting washing the space is accented by the sharp purple glow tastefully blooming from under the leather seats and stone tables carved cleanly with geometric edges.

By the time they pick a table to settle at, Ragar already has a bottle in each hand, knowing the routine well.

Raizel, however, is caught utterly out of time and out of place. The lights, the sounds, the sharp scent of alcohol are novel to him. With great curiosity, he watches Ragar poor for Frankenstein, who holds his glass out casually as if they have done this many, many times before. The familiarity, Raizel realizes, rivals that of Frankenstein pouring tea for his so called 'Master,' and silently, Raizel wonders how long 820 years really is. He looks to Ragar, who moves to gracefully pour another glass—Raizel's.

"You've never drunk before, Master." Frankenstein looks down at his share of swirling amber liquid. "I'm not sure if this will be to your tastes, but—" He holds out his glass. "Cheers."

Ragar smoothly clinks glasses. Raizel hurries to join, picking up on the etiquette of this social affair he has only so far seen in TV shows and movies, played out raucously by rosy-faced actors. The acetic taste of alcohol burns his tongue and throat. Raizel blinks, trying his hardest to keep his face from scrunching and himself from rudely coughing, but Frankenstein, of course, notices.

He smiles sympathetically. "You don't like it," he states.

Raizel quietly clears his throat and glances down, embarrassed. "I will learn to appreciate it."

"Master…" Frankenstein plucks the glass out of Raizel's hand. "You don't have to make yourself enjoy something you don't like. This is a little strong anyway." He sets the glass down with a clink.

Raizel watches, childlike, as Frankenstein and Ragar raise their drinks at each other from a distance and smoothly swallow the liquid of fire and medicine with ease. Ragar nods, and Frankenstien smiles. Raizel picks up his drink again.

"Sir Raizel, perhaps you will enjoy something lighter and sweeter," Ragar offers.

Raizel knows this is very much true. He knows neither will fault him for it, but he is compelled to keep the filled glass in his hands. He is determined to join in on their same enjoyment. So, Raizel braces himself, his brow firm, and tilts the whole glassfull down his throat as well. He does not wish to be different; he does not wish to distance himself.

Blood roars in his ears and heats his face, making it fuzzy and warm. He quickly lowers his glass to the table and lets out a stinging breath.

"Master! Are you...alright?"

"I am fine, Frankenstein." he says, ears ringing. "You had asked me if I would like to have fun. I would like to have fun." He pushes the now empty glass forward expectantly.

Frankenstein looks at him, a bit shocked, and performs the age old ritual of pouring for him. Then he leans back, own drink in hand. "They've really expanded since we were last here." Though he addresses no names, Raizel knows he is only speaking to Ragar, referencing history Raizel does not know and has not experienced.

Ragar nods demurely, understandingly, knowingly. He tugs his mask down slightly again to drink. "It has been fifty years," he says with a slight nostalgic smile. "I believe you had gotten us escorted out at the time."

"I did no such thing."

"You broke someone's wrist."

"He was bothering you."

"Hm." Ragar swirls his mild poison and watches it glint in the light.

Raizel only observes them silently, unable to offer any conversation or common connection. He wonders what else he has missed, what lives remain unlived for him. He is, in this moment and in this world, detached, a relic with a history far too ancient and distant to be relevant. He subtly furrows his brow in great concentration. "Frankenstein."

"Yes, Master?"

Awkwardly, Raizel holds out his glass in stiff imitation of what he has just observed. "Cheers," he declares.

Frankenstein momentarily freezes. He blinks at Raizel, seemingly stunned. Then, he smiles easily and clinks glasses. Ragar joins as well.

At this, Raizel is brought to the present, and he feels irrevocably happy. Squinting past the unpleasant sting of alcohol, he does his best to keep up with Ragar and Frankenstein.

* * *

"So, are you bitches done looking at hot balls of gas and ready to do something fun?" Tao slaps his hand across Takeo's back, startling him from the telescope. "Seen one, seen them all. Let's go. I got something I've been meaning to try with my best buds."

"Yeah?" M-21 turns from the informational sign about the planet Venus.

Tao grins. "Yeah. I had Boss help me with this too."

Takeo half-smiles. "That just makes me more worried."

"There's a park nearby. I'll show you there."

"This better not get us in trouble," M-21 says.

"Trust me, it's completely safe."

Tao receives suspicion laced glances from both Takeo and M-21, but they eventually wander out of the observatory and find themselves under the shadows of the forest and the naked gaze of the cosmos. The night is calm and filled with the music of crickets. Leisurely, they march uphill, nothing more than quiet, black silhouettes on the horizon.

When they are at the top of a clearing, the distant city lights—glitz and glamor—smile up at them in nonexistent congratulations for conquering the short trek.

"Nice view," Takeo comments.

"Alright, here it is!" From his pockets, Tao produces a small, suspiciously nondescript white box. He opens it to reveal twelve equally nondescript and neatly rolled joints.

"You just wanted to smoke?" M-21 smirks, exasperated.

"These aren't your regular cigarettes—those are nasty anyway—these are Boss branded, cooked by the mad scientist himself in his dastardly lab. They're supposed to be relaxing and strawberry flavored." Tao chuckles. "But, uh, I didn't want to try these by myself, you know, in case I suddenly die."

"So now we can all suddenly die together." M-21 crosses his arms.

"Precisely." Tao extends the box, offering, and M-21 takes one. Then he turns to Takeo.

Takeo shakes his head as he holds up his hand. "At least one of us should be sober."

Tao nods. "Good call," he says as he takes a smoke for himself and returns the box back into his pocket. He fishes for a small disposable lighter. "So I don't actually know what's in these…" Regardless, he holds the roll up to his lips and flicks the lighter before tossing it to M-21. "But it's Boss's stuff; the man knows what he's doing."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." M-21 lights his own, and the end glows a dim blue. Upon his first inhale, he blinks and clears his throat. "These are supposed to be _relaxing?_ I'm pretty sure there's a paralyzing agent in this."

"Part of the effect I'm sure. He told me your limbs might feel a little loose." Tao wiggles his arms for emphasis and takes a generous puff. He blows blue tinted smoke into the air. "Huh, it does taste like strawberries."

In the distance, they hear the faint siren of an ambulance, and the night proceeds in peace and smoke.

"Hahahaha! Could you guys have ever imagined? Three expendable, disposable, good for nothing Union fucks, on summer vacation." Tao by now is on his second joint. He is sitting on his haunches, and the roll is carefully balanced between his index and middle fingers. "Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't die months ago—surprised I didn't die when we first met them, Boss, Boss's Boss, and ninja assassin man."

"I'm pretty sure we were all surprised by that." Takeo chuckles rather sheepishly, leaning back onto his arms, supporting himself in a seated position. "I can't believe I thought I really had a chance against Mister Ragar at the time." He places a thoughtful finger on his chin. "Shot me in about several dozen places. He's...really fast, and I thought _I_ was fast."

"At least you didn't get shredded by Frankenstein's devil powers," M-21 remarks. He huffs, faintly amused at himself. "He really was about to kill me, you know. Raizel had to stop him." Somehow, miraculously, M-21 sighs at the violent memory with an embellished, rose-tinted, and entertained nostalgia. "I already thought he was scary back then, but now? Jesus. No one even knows how many people are in that spear. He's got most of the Union big-shots, plus however many Crombel had gathered for himself. What's that total? A thousand? Hundred thousand? A million? Whatever, that shit's cursed."

"Mm." Takeo nods wholeheartedly. His brows knit slightly in soft, melancholic concern. "I feel sorry for him, in all honesty. It's probably not easy having something like that. The boss has already almost lost himself once." He gazes out over the city, feeling the wind sway the blades of grass in between his sprawled out fingers. "I hope we never have to see him like that again."

"Wasn't there another time something like that happened? Back in the olden days, before Boss's Boss went missing. A fight with another clan leader ended poorly. Apparently, they had something that belonged to some kid that Boss had looked after, and that set him off."

"Is that it?" M-21 inhales the last of his smoke and snuffs it out on the ground. "I heard from Regis's old man that Frankenstein just out of nowhere rampaged across Lukedonia. Ended up destroying the palace before he was stopped."

"Crazy." Tao dramatically shudders. "Whatever it is, I hope I never experience it. That's all I know." He laughs, lightening the conversation.

"Hey Tao." M-21 extends an empty hand. "Hand me another one."

"Oh, yeah, sure." Tao clumsily fumbles around in his pockets, uncoordinated. When he finally is able to find the box, it falls limply out of his fingers as he tries to hand it to M-21. "...I can't feel my arms and legs," he says.

"Never mind, I don't want another one."

Takeo sighs as he stands up. "Let's...head back."

Tao chuckles nervously. "Haha...yeah…"

* * *

Raizel inwardly shivers, managing his fourth or seventh drink. He feels like he is radiating warmth from his face and his movements feel slow and dream-like, but when he looks at his companions, they seem not at all phased. Frankenstein looks at him, quietly worried, and Raizel looks back, quietly, bizarrely indignant.

"Master, perhaps you've had enough." Frankenstein reaches out to slide Raizel's glass away from him, condensation dragging across the smooth surface of the table.

Raizel, with a hot buzz rising behind his eyelids, suddenly stands. "Frankenstein."

"Ah, yes?"

"I wish to go to the floors for dancing. I understand this is a 'dance club.'"

"I will escort you, Master."

Raizel narrows his eyes slightly. "No, you will lead me."

Frankenstein stares up at him for a moment until Raizel realizes he's only repeated what had just been said. Frankenstein smiles, gently sighing, and stands. "Please stay close, Master." He turns momentarily to Ragar. "Finish the rest of that bottle for me," he tells him.

Again, space shifts, and they step into pulsing, glimmering music made of instruments that don't really exist in ways familiar to Raizel. The dancers, the people, are intoxicated by their own bodies, minds, and lives. Pressed against anonymous bodies and drowned under unseeing lights, Raizel is no one. He is one of the many, many murmurs unheard by the rest of the universe, alive and utterly meaningless. He stares, overwhelmed and captured by everything that is beyond and uncaring of him. It is like magic. A friendly touch on his arm grounds him back to himself and the person in front of him.

"Master," Frankenstein calls. "Is this too much? Should we head back?"

With surprising quickness, Raizel turns his hand and takes a gentle hold of Frankenstein's wrist, as if he were about to escape. Frankenstein startles. "You are always worried, Frankenstein. I cause you nothing but that and grief." With lucid earnestness, Raizel watches Frankenstein's eyes—shifting, iridescent, reflecting and refracting dancing people and dancing lights. "I am...no fun," he admits, defeated and small in the universe.

"No...Master…" Frankenstein's expression is deeply sympathetic and considerate. It is unjustifyingly, infuriatingly gentle and understanding, but Raizel knows that he does not understand. Frankenstein smiles that regarding smile that is reserved for them in private, and amidst the bustling anonymity, they are alone. And yet, Raizel knows Frankenstein guards himself with great skill in these moments.

Raizel, warm with the movement and pressure of bodies and the sleepy seduction of alcohol, looks squarely and sternly at Frankenstein. "I cannot drink like you do. I cannot fight like you do. I cannot do anything." He presses forward. "Admit this to me, Frankenstein."

"Master…" Frankenstein holds still and goes silent briefly. His face creases then relaxes, his features sharp and then bleached under the lighting. "So you cannot do those things; they are not important. That is not why I remain loyal to you, Master. You do not have to change who you are."

The corners of Raizel's eyes tighten. The words leave his mouth in a disorientated breath. "You are wrong, Frankenstein. You are wrong, you are wrong, you are wrong—"

"Master—"

"You are wrong, because I am—I am nobody, Frankenstein. I have been nothing and nowhere for a very long time. I do not know anything and cannot do anything, so how can you say that I do not have to change?"

They stare at each other, still and bewildered, caught in between the seconds on a clock.

Raizel steps back and looks at the floor. He is sure his face is pink with embarrassment from the outburst bubbled out of him, but it is masked by neons. Then, he looks up again. "Do you wish to dance with me, Frankenstein?"

"If that is what you will."

"That is not what I mean."

"I will dance with you, Master."

"I do not know how to dance."

Frankenstein's face quirks in funny ways, and he steps forward, taking Raizel's hands. "Just have fun, Master," he reassures, and they move together in novel, strange, pointless ways.

Sometimes they are with the music; sometimes they are not. Raizel feels clumsy and unpracticed next to Frankenstein's mindless though anachronistic grace. It is a blur to him. Sometimes Frankenstein looks at him; sometimes he does not, his gaze far, far beyond him, distant.

"Ragar," Raizel suddenly says. "He is a good friend."

Frankenstein smirks, a quiet chuckle lost in his chest, as if Raizel has said something vaguely funny. "He's a pretty okay guy."

Raizel looks up at him, eyes wide. He swells tenderly with a naive and vague hope. "Am I a 'pretty okay guy' too, Frankenstein?"

"Master...you are much more than that."

Raizel's expression falls with a subtle, guarded disappointment. He looks down again. "Ragar has been your companion for a very long time… He knows and does many things."

Around them, people applaud and cheer as another D.J. steps onto the stage. People swarm and sway. The ground and walls shudder with fevered excitement. Someone's elbow bumps into Raizel's back—"Oh! Sorry, I'm so sorry!"—and he stumbles into Frankenstein.

Raizel takes a breath, the world swimming around him. "I am… I am not a good friend, Frankenstein," he tells him and closes his eyes. Quietly, the world cranes its neck to peer at his miniscule existence. It concentrates sharply on him for a fleeting moment, like a picture becoming clear in a camera, and then sinks far away as the ground slips from under him.

* * *

A text message distracts Ragar from the aggressively benign conversation coming from the stranger who has made himself comfortable in the seat across.

'Master has fallen asleep. We're leaving.'

Ragar stands.

"Oh? Leaving so soon?" the stranger inquires.

Ragar nods and is about to turn away when the man holds him back.

"Hey hey hey, how about one more drink? I'll buy. I—I really think we have a connection."

He gives him a hard, assessing gaze then decides to sit down again.

Smiling toothily and victoriously, as if he has managed to secure himself a hot-blooded catch for the night, the man waves over bottle service and picks an expensive 80 proof vodka, clear as rain and presented in a tall fogged white bottle.

Ragar motions with his hand for the attendant to hand the bottle over. Unceremoniously, he takes off the cap and tilts the entire 750 milliliters down his throat, as if it is nothing more than water. He only slams the bottle down on the table when there is not a single drop left. Then, he curtly stands up again.

"Should I—should I call an ambulance?" the attendant asks as he pats herself down for her phone.

"My friend is waiting for me," Ragar says. Promptly, he turns and walks away, his heels clicking sharply against the floor and leaving stunned silence in his wake.

"...She's so cool," the man says.

"She is…" the woman agrees.

* * *

"Will he be okay?"

Frankenstein nods. "Master likely just picked up on the intoxication from the minds of so many people being drunk and in such close proximity to him. He'll regulate himself once we're far away enough." He is carrying Raizel tucked peacefully close to his chest, head of soft, dark hair resting against his shoulder.

The music of nightlife and countless other lives plays on as they walk quietly back to the hotel.


End file.
